Chapter Five: A Man of His Word

Strawberry: The beginnings of Fana's mystery… Next chapter, a lot of stuff comes out on her end. I just like adding in a lot of the Joker's philosophies x] Ones I make up, of course… Anyway, review, else I shall procrastinate in updating…

No kind of bird enchanted the deserted, broken down ice rink with any kind of beautiful sound to bring any notice of morning. All the windows were boarded with heavy wooden planks; those that were not had pounds of black tape closing out the light. Therefore, Fana opened her eyes with a gentle sigh, unaware of her surroundings, halfway through the afternoon. There were no alarm clocks, no covers to push off wearily, no mother to endearingly shake her to consciousness—though there had not been much of that in years. More than years. The last of any motherly interaction had been in high school. She awakened herself. It was not as though she was not old enough to care for herself. She was plenty mature.

However, she would have much rather have had a motherly figure wake her in the morning than a murderous man in purple and green, smiling at her through a painted face.

"Good morning," he greeted simply, smirking. He was sitting below her on the floor, whereas she could feel her body aching from having slept on a narrow bench that continued to prod at her ribs. "I see you sleep on your stomach." He was twiddling his thumbs calmly in his lap, gazing at her intently as though he were less of a monster and more of an acquaintance. But Fana knew well that he wasn't. "That's supposed to be bad for the digestive system you know…causes excessive sugar intake, bad breath…you know. Unkindly…sorts of things." He let a nasally, "Huh?" slip from his throat before grinningly wildly, exposing his yellow teeth as he got to his feet.

Fana's heart was racing. She had to swallow a gaping wad of saliva to clear her throat, though that as well seemed to have been painfully affected by the wooden bench. Squinting at the clock, she groaned and used her arms as sufficient padding for her head.

"Don't you want any breakfast?" The Joker reappeared in front of the bench, waiting for her reply. He watched her slip into slumber, or attempt to. The way her back moved up and down as she slowly breathed, up and down, up and down… It was melodious and soothing in a way he could not have imagined himself to sleep. The scent of the nachos he'd been eating last night wafted to his senses. His eyelids draped closed, as he happily thought of himself throwing them in the microwave that hardly worked at all. The stench was mortifying in such a satisfying way that he could not wait to place the container of them under Fana's nose and watch her expression change desperately to disgust. Hah…her insides will sink. "I made nachos!" he exclaimed, clapping his hand down on her back and giving her a shake. Fana ignored him, having no interest in eating in his presence. It made their relationship seem…too casual. And it was anything but casual. "Come onnnnn…" he whined, squatting down to put his face to her ear. She did not turn to look at him, though the way she twitched and raised her shoulder a bit suggested that she was trying to block him out. He blew up his cheeks with air, suppressing laughter.

He was hissing her name, breathing into her earlobe and sending a shock to her brain with his lightning breath. She found herself pursing her lips as he repeated, "Fana, Fana, Fana, Fana," over and over, countless times of irreplaceable seconds of his rasping voice paining her sleepy ears. She tried her hardest to block him out, but she could only recognize a bigger smile stretching over his face as he spoke. He changed his words to, "Come on, come on…" He said it hastily and impatiently, adding a different feeling to it each time it escaped his scarred lips.

It was then that she was finally struck with just the right amount of fear when she felt a cold blade press lightly against the nape of her neck.

She shut her eyes, sick of them burning with salted tears and the stingy itching of a night's unproductive sleep. Locked in her chest was a plea for help, deliverance from a madman who was holding her captive in an icehouse where she was made to sleep on benches and…

…And was not harmed. He hadn't hurt her. There had been threats, and yet they had been utterly empty. Why was she believing him? Why was she lying there, thinking of all the possible, terrible things that could happen to her there, and still not thinking of leaving, when she would have bet her life's savings that the door was unlocked? Her hair smelled lightly of perfume or fruit, something that had probably lingered from the night before, where she had stood out among the crowd to challenge him. He narrowed his eyes, sensing her brain working frivolously. He exhaled in what might have been a yawn unacknowledged. Heh…finally—finally—she was scared! And as well she should have been, he reminded himself. She could not possibly have been a normal human being if she did not quiver at least a bit over the person he was. Any do-goody human would have done that, now wouldn't they?

Then again, perhaps Fana was somehow…on his side. If…he was allowed to even call it "his side".

"Come on, little missy," he drawled. Her eyes opened as snake-like slits, their eerie golden glow flashing in the yellow lighting. For a split second, she relinquished all of her fear; he could see it in her eyes. And in that split second, she told him something without words that he did not comprehend until the moment had passed. For that one instant of visual connection, his knife still running along her neck, he really did believe that she was just like him in a hidden, weaker form. Hm… He switched his knife closed and stowed it away again, licking his lips several times before turning his attentions to the grungy walls around him. "I'm gonna have to teach you a few things," he said distantly. She had not removed her eyes from him. "I can see who you can be. You can be an Ace, a Queen, a Duchess. You can be something…something important. You have that power." He stood, getting a hold of her under the arms and dragging her up against her will. "You just need for someone to teach you a little somethin' about all that."

She felt frozen, even though she had finally stood. He called for her attention several more times, but she blocked him out. She tried to be discreet as her eyes flitted towards the doorway. He was going to hurt her after all. Just not the way she had expected him to. He had simply hinted that he was going to change her. She could not have guessed what he meant by her need to be taught, but she could bank on the fact that he was most-likely going to force it upon her, and it was going to be something evil.

Just like him.

"Come on!" he finally shouted, his voice raising to an extend that caused his voice to sound ancient. She jumped as though she were a child, feeling instantly ashamed, and was pulled into confusion as he led her into the food court, where a sickening smell was toying around with the air. In a rush, every memory of his angled face turning in the mirror as he caught sight of her the night before flew to her mind. She could see his pit-like eyes staring, watching, on the hunt for blood and disaster constantly. The red dripping down his face demonically as he casually undressed himself symbolized how much a monster he was. And yet, he still undressed as humanly as anyone. He was a man.

His fingernails were digging into her forearm. She might have yelped, but her head was spinning as she wondered what was causing her to make up such excuses for him and try to see the humanity behind his behavior. Perhaps he had been implying that he could change her into some form of life that resembled what he was. Perhaps he had been right that there was an uncanny potential for that to happen, and it frightened her. Her blatant attempts at studying and understanding him were signs, were they not?

"You're a man," she found herself saying quietly as he pulled her roughly along. He only laughed as a child would and threw her into a chair facing a red and yellow rounded table. Crossing to the other side of the room with a purpose, he reached the counter and slung something white around his neck. Fana did not notice what it was until he turned, carrying a container of something sickening looking. An apron reading, "Kiss the Cook", was draped across his torso, and he walked towards her with a sly smile of pleasure plastered on his face. There was almost a skip to his step. He did not stop moving when he reached the table, instead ramming his abdomen into it with such force that she could not believe he barely cringed at all. The box of smelly food slid into her across the table, and he leaned expectantly into her presence, watching intently.

"I am a man," he responded lately. She tried to look at him securely, but could not help but squint a bit at the hellacious smell of what looked to have been molded nachos. Her lip curled in disgust, but in the back of her mind, she wondered more if he had poisoned them.

It wouldn't have been the first time someone had tried. "You tried to poison me," she said.

"There was no other way to destroy suffering," her tearful father answered.

She ignored her memories determinedly. "You are a woman," he added slowly and mockingly, perhaps in attempt to poke fun at her. "Try some! I worked so very hard…on them…my heart would be crushed if I couldn't have simply a good opinion of them." His lips seemed to stretch further across his face, having nothing to do with the paint. Fana shut her eyes momentarily, doing her best to breathe only through her mouth without making her disgust too terribly obvious. Pressing her lips together, she carefully plucked one of the chips away from the hardened mess that was the age-old, bluing cheese. Her stomach twisted slightly, but she came to her senses soon enough, knowing well that the world could not be too fearful. If anyone was too careful, they became dominated by it. She didn't trust herself nearly enough to allow herself any fear at all, lest it seep into her veins with permanence and overtake with ease.

"What's your name?" He raised his eyebrows, somewhat impressed that she had even bothered with trying to discover him. Character, he thought to himself. She's not only concerned about herself. In fact…

"I don't have one," he answered casually.

"I know you do," she retorted snappishly. He opened his mouth to say, "Only if you eat breakfast," but before he had the chance, she had tossed one into her mouth, screwing up her face and shutting her eyes as if she had never imagined something being so foul.

He smiled. "No, really. I don't. No other alias…" He picked up one of the chips from in front of her and crunched down on it. "I don't believe in the past. Or the future for that matter. There is…nothing else but the present, because all it does is become the past and future. If it can become both time periods, then it can be all three, therefore, there's no point to the other two. A name is part of a past in a world where present dominates. In a world…" He trailed off, his taste buds ferociously raging at what they were being fed. Fana ate another chip; they went back and forth, in a pattern they did not name but understood.

"How old are you?" she asked. He broke the pattern to take an extra heap of the nachos in order to fill his mouth to the brim.

"Four thousand, seven-hundred and twelve," he answered truthfully. "In a world where numbers are never lies, since they are only names."

"Who are you?"

He slowed the mechanics of his brain and chewed gently. "As much as a no one…or someone…as anyone else in this world."

She hated to admit it, even non-verbally, but there was something about his views that was…logical. She watched his cheekbones move as he chewed: humanity was itching to escape him, and leaked out on several occasions. She watched him use his fifth finger to push a greasy strand of hair away from his forehead: knowledge of discomfort. She watched his eyes trail from his hand to the food to nothing at all when he put something into his mouth: senses. "Human…" she said under her breath. She was aware that he had heard her, but he made no recognition. "You're just…" She barely wanted to hear it escape her own, conclusive mouth.

"I'm just like you," he finished for her with darkness consuming his face. He sat there, knowing that she could have been someone who would identify with him. The amount of empathy he had for her confusion—something he hadn't felt in a while, but had indeed, been felt long ago—made him double-take at his own mind and try to find some kind of comedy in what he felt. All he could think was that his sentence was interchangeable: He was just like her, but at the same time, she was just like him.

It was a bad joke.

"Who are you?" he asked, mirroring her own question.

She shifted her weight, debating whether to answer. Once she decided there was no harm, it took another set of minutes to attempt to understand herself at all. "I'm young. I have no future. I work in the restaurant business."

"Your parents?"

"They're part of the past in a world where the present dominates." He smiled.

"Husband?"

"There's no one to rely on."

Just like me. He chewed.

Neither of them spoke as she understood that they were to stand. He emptily exited the court and traveled to the door to the icehouse. She squinted momentarily, then transferred her position to the wooden bench she had been sleeping on. She felt belittled, or little in general, as she sat there, lone on a long line of benches that were not being used. Around the door, he was removing the apron, fumbling with the tie in the back. After he had collected himself, he reached in his coat's pocket and extracted a pair of gloves. Sliding them over each of his hands, he sniffed a bit, as if to say that they had never come close to identifying with one another. He knew that she feared being like him; part of him didn't blame her, and that was the same part that he feared being. It resembled her. In less than a day's time, was it possible that they had let their personalities bleed into each others in such a way?

"We're going on a conquest," he told her as simply as if he were inviting her to the movies on a Sunday afternoon. Fana knew all too well that it most nearly would be some kind of villainous conquest. Vaguely, she wondered if there was any sort of television in the area so that she might discover his plans through the news. But it was of no importance. "I would invite you…ooh, I hate to be rude…but someone might want to ruin our little plan if they see you around." Several of his henchmen appeared at his sides without even a word spoken by him. "You don't want to run anywhere," he said convincingly, as though he had any right to speak for her. "They want you to. But you don't need that kind of hollow escape. What does it mean to run if the present rolls forward and you can remember what it once was?"

After those words, his gloved hand curled around the handle. "Lemme tell you what I think." He noticed Fana setting her jaw determinedly as though she were trying to prove herself to him. Ha. What's to prove? he thought devilishly. "I think…you're just scared of everybody." He wanted to embrace her when that heavy glee shot up from his toes at the sight of her fearful eyes. "Ah, seems I know a few things about you, yeah?" he instigated. She made no sign of any reply accept for the slight bobbing of her neck to suggest she might have swallowed in nervousness. "Being scared of…people…it's—it's just a waste of time," he explained. "What are they gonna do to you, y'know? I mean…" He scoffed. "People are weak-kuh. You're scared of me, but that's because you're smart, and you've figured out that I'm not your average man…hahaha…not…average…at all. However…look at me. However, you're scared of me like you'd be scared of a person. But listen, doll face, I'm not a person. I'm above that. When I give you my word, I mean it." Her eyes were glistening. "Stop sitting on the edge of that little—" he pointed "—bench all petrified-like. I said…I wasn't going to hurt you. I said you weren't a roadblock. You're not. I don't need to. Unless you keep going in this little…downward spiral, you get to keep your face. But if you keep going down…eventually, you're gonna think about trying to…escape, and you know something? The strugglers are the funniest to do away with. But look, listen. I gave you my word, missy-moo. And you know something else?" He patted his chest descriptively and then proceeded to fling his arm to the side impressively as if he were a ringmaster. "I'm a man of my word. Trust them all, if only to laugh when they betray you. Stupidity is humor."

He threw the door open, tossing his head behind him with laughter. His greenish hair brushed his shoulders and the back of his purple suit folded messily; naturally he would never iron it. He closed the door again and Fana detected no sound or view of him twisting the lock shut. Suspiciously, she checked in the perimeter of her vision for any of the clown-masked followers that might have been lurking to make sure she would not be able to escape. There did not seem to be anyone around.

She did not get up to leave the entire day, and the Joker did not return until evening had come.

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